Not a Drill: A Jack Reacher Short Story Read Free Page B

lunchtime today, or some such?”
    Another guy asked, “Who should we call?”
    Suzanne said, “They’re not telling us anything.”
    “We could try the governor’s office.”
    Another woman said, “Like he’s going to tell us anything, if the others aren’t.”
    “It can’t be bears.”
    “Then what is it?”
    “I don’t know.”
    Suzanne looked at Reacher and said, “What should we do?”
    Reacher said, “Go for a walk someplace else.”
    “We can’t. We’re stuck here. Helen’s got the van.”
    “She left already?”
    “She didn’t want to eat breakfast here.”
    “Can’t you call her?”
    “No bars.”
    “Bars aren’t open yet.”
    “I mean no cell phone coverage here. We can’t call her. We tried, from the payphone in the store. She’s off the network somewhere.”
    “So go kayaking instead. That’s probably just as much fun.”
    Henry said, “I don’t want to go kayaking. I want to walk the trail.”

    Eventually the small crowd wandered away again, out through the door to the parking lot, still mumbling and grumbling, and the waitress came by to take Reacher’s order. He ate and drank in silence, and he got the check, and he paid in cash. He asked the waitress, “Does the trail get closed a lot?”
    She said, “It never happened before.”
    “Did you see who did it?”
    She shook her head. “I was asleep.”
    “Where’s the nearest state police barracks?”
    “The kayak owner says it was soldiers.”
    “Does he?”
    She nodded. “He says he saw them.”
    “In the middle of the night?”
    She nodded again. “He lives nearest the arch. They woke him up.”
    Reacher put an extra dollar on her tip and walked out to the street. He turned right and took a step in the direction of out of town, but then he stopped and went back and found the hundred-yard side street that led to the trail.
    Henry and Suzanne were right there at the arch. Just the two of them. They had their backpacks on. The arch had tape tied across it, three lengths, one knee high, one waist high, and one chest high, all two-inch plastic ribbon, blue and white, twisted on itself in places, saying
Police Line Do Not Cross
.
    Henry said, “See?”
    Reacher said, “I believed you the first time.”
    “So what do you think?”
    “I think the trail is closed.”
    Henry turned away and stared at the tape, like he could make it dematerialize by willpower alone. Reacher walked back to Main Street, and onward out of town, to the welcome board on the shoulder. Ten minutes, he thought. Maybe less. He figured that morning’s exodus would be brisker than normal.

    But the first vehicle he saw was coming, not going. Into town, not out. And it was a military vehicle. A Humvee, to be precise, painted up in black and green camouflage. It roared past, all thrashing gears and whining tires. It took the curve and disappeared.
    Four guys in it, hard men, all in the new Army Combat Uniform.
    Reacher waited. A minute later a car came driving out of town, but it was full.Two in the front, two in the back. No room for a hitchhiker, especially one as large as Reacher. He recognized people he had seen in the diner, disconsolate and complaining, boots on and ready, backpacks piled in the corner, no place to go.
    He waited.
    Next up was another Humvee, heading in, not out. Roaring engine, thrashing drive train, howling tires, four guys wearing ACUs. Reacher watched it around the corner and even at a distance he heard it slow, and change gear, and speed up again. A right hand turn, he thought, and he would have bet the few bucks in his pocket it was heading for the wooden arch.
    He stared after it, thinking.
    Then another car came driving out of town. A sedan. Two people. An empty back seat. The driver was the guy who still had the number for the motel in Cripps. He slowed and stopped and the woman next to him buzzed her window down. She asked, “Where are you headed?”
    Reacher said nothing.
    She said, “We’re going back to